The Others: Whispers in the Dark
by chronicler-of-knuckles
Summary: Jules Verne is hearing voices. Is someone trying to reach him through his visions? Or is he just going out of his mind? (Please R&R)
1. Ch 1

(I don't own them, but, damn, I sure wish I did. Dem boys are cute!)  
NOTE: This is the first story in a series called The Others. I invite and welcome comments.  
The Others: Whispers in the Dark  
by the Chronicler  
Chapter One   
  
Whispers...  
  
whispering....  
  
somewhere....  
  
something....  
  
someone....  
  
What....  
  
Who....  
  
"HELP ME!"  
  
Jules Verne shot up with such force that he threw himself out of his chair and landed with a rather painful thud on the cold floor. He laid where he landed for a long moment, his mind momentarily frozen with fear. Then, seeing the room around him for the first time, he took a deep, shaky breath, calming himself. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and ran shaking hands through his hair.   
  
"Again." he mumbled to himself. Again, no matter how he resisted, he had fallen asleep. Again the whispers had invaded his dreams. Again the dream had ended with the screamed "HELP ME!" And, again, he ended up on the floor.  
  
He twisted his arm which he had landed on... again. His shoulder was turning a pale blue, a bruise was forming.   
  
Great! Not like he didn't have enough worries. League of Darkness; Count Gregory; flashes of the future; lack of sleep; when he could sleep, dreams filled with maddening whispers; and, now, he had to hide a bruise.  
  
"Damn." the young frenchman swore, a rather uncharacteristic thing for him to say. But lack of sleep tended to do that to a man.  
  
Phileas had already put off taking his guest back home to Paris. The man never missed anything! Particularly when it came to Jules Verne, who he had taken unto himself to make his ward. He had spent the last couple of days close to the writer, watching every little move he made. And when he, himself, couldn't be there, his ever loyal valet, Passpartout, took his place.  
  
Jules found that the only time he wasn't watched was when he was in his room, pretending to be working on this or that. And, even then, he often heard one or the other walk pass the door of his room, pause, and listen for any trouble.   
  
A time or two, one of the men had asked him if he was alright, what was bothering him. And, when he had assured them that he was fine, nothing was wrong, they gave him that look that was their way of telling him that they didn't believe him. They didn't push him for an answer. But they weren't about to let him out from under their protection until they knew what was going on.  
  
Phileas Fogg was a man of limited patients. And, Jules knew, he had been pressing on those limits.  
  
And now he had a bruise.  
  
Normally, a bruise would be such a trivial little thing... but, the way the two men had been hovering over him... Phileas was going to demand an explanation if he found out about it.  
  
If he found out about it.  
  
Jules sighed, climbing to his feet. He hated lying. He hated keeping secrets from his friends, particularly when he knew how much it worried them. But he had to. He didn't really know why. He just didn't want them to know. Visions of the future popping in and out of his head all the time was troublesome enough... and now the whispers.  
  
A soft knock on the door brought him out of his own thoughts.  
  
"Just a moment." he hurriedly answered, snatching up his shirt and pulling it on. He took a moment to make sure the bruise was safely concealed, before answering the door.  
  
To his surprise, it wasn't either Phileas nor Passpartout checking up on him once again. It was Rebecca Fogg who had spent the last two weeks away on some mission or other. She smiled warmly at him, her brilliant green eyes sparkling almost mischievously (not that they had ever sparkled with anything else; even in the darkest of times when even her stout cousin Phileas hesitated, she had that sparkle that told everyone that she was not truly happy unless she was in the thick of it). "Hello, Jules." she greeted.   
  
"Rebecca! You're back!" Jules smiled. For the first time in days he didn't need to fake it. Rebecca was always a sight to smile at. And, even better, always and ally when he had to butt heads with Phileas. Jules wondered if it was due to her fondness for the under dog... which, when it came to going up against the over powering, all consuming Phileas Fogg, the writer was most definitely the under dog.  
  
"So, it would seem." she answered, a little tease in her tone. The beautiful red head stepped passed him and into the room, not waiting for an invitation. She glided around the room, taking in every little detail. Usually when she had been gone for a day or two, she would return to find the room littered with new drawings and stories. Rebecca had been gone for two weeks and there was only a handful of half finished bits laying around. She paused beside the bed, which she noted had not been slept in. her gaze drifted to the chair at the desk which laid on it side on the floor. Then she turned and looked at her young friend. She frowned at what she saw.  
  
Jules Verne looked haggard. Dark circles under the bleary, brown eyes; soft brown curls going this way and that; clothing wrinkled... she couldn't be sure since his shirt hung loose, but Rebecca thought that the already too light youngster had lost weight. None of this pleased Rebecca in the least.  
  
Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Jules began to fidget. "Was there something I could do for you?" he asked when he could take it no more.  
  
"Yes, there is." Rebecca stepped up to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Come join us for breakfast. passpartout has worked all morning to fill the table with every goody you can think of." Again she smile, an expression she was sure could bend the boy's will until he was willing to do anything for her.  
  
Jules hesitated. She wasn't sounding very much on his side. In fact, she was sounding very much like Phileas, trying to get to his secrets with friendliness. Of course she would. Phileas and rebecca were two sides of the same coin: both Foggs. "I'm... I'm not really dressed..."  
  
"Well, get dressed." she encouraged. "I'll wait just outside."   
  
That didn't work. "But, I'm not really hungry..."  
  
"Don't be ridicules, Jules." Rebecca reprimanded. "Of course you are hungry. You didn't eat a thing yesterday."  
  
Ah... she has already talked to Passpartout and Phileas. Jules sighed, dropping his chin to his chest. he could avoid one Fogg, even a Fogg and his valet... but two Foggs... Jules Verne really wanted to go home!  
  
Seeing her win, Rebecca smiled, stepped passed him and out of the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
**********  
  
Phileas Fogg glanced over the top of his paper at the sound of yet another platter being set on the table before him. With an exasperated sigh, he folded the paper and set it on the plate. "Really, Passpartout, we want him to eat... not gorge himself to death." he reprimanded.   
  
Passpartout paused, looking over the food laden table. He had nearly every breakfast treat he could think of from recipes from nearly half the world... anything and everything he thought might tempt the boy into eating. Or, in the very least, feel guilty enough for all the work Passpartout had gone to to open up and tell them what was going on.  
  
The valet frowned, lines of worry creasing his brow.  
  
Phileas sighed again, this time more sympathetic. After all, he too was worried about the boy. Of course, when he was worried, he didn't spend all night in the kitchen, cooking up a feast that would make the queen herself blush.   
  
"Good morning, gentlemen." Rebecca sang as, arm locked securely around Jules' arm, she maneuvered the subject of everyone's concern into the room.   
  
Young Jules Verne did not look happy.  
  
"Ah, Rebecca, Verne. Happy to see that you finally decide to join us... before the table collapsed under the weight of Passpartout's attentions." Phileas stood and pulled a chair out for his cousin, who left Jules side and moved to take her seat. As Phileas pushed the chair in for her, he glanced over his shoulder.   
  
Jules remained where Rebecca had left him, looking reluctant to step any further into the room.  
  
Phileas resisted the urge to snap at him. He didn't know what was wrong with the child, but he knew snapping at him would not help in the least. Thus, as he moved back to his own seat, he waved a hand to the chair to his right, across from Rebecca. "Join us, Verne." he encouraged.  
  
Jules, once again, hesitated.  
  
Oh, to bloody hell with this! "Oh, really now, Verne! Sit down!" Phileas snapped.  
  
Rebecca glared at her cousin, but, had to admit, he had the desire effect.  
  
The boy snapped to and hurried to take the indicated seat.  
  
Passpartout was quick to come up behind him with a platter of ham. "It is a good morning, yes, Mister Jules?" he greeted, dishing him out three huge slices of ham, followed be nearly an entire nest full of scrambled eggs.  
  
Jules nodded slightly. "A good morning, Passpartout. Thank you." He held up a hand, trying to discourage the valet from piling any more food before him, but, apparently, Passpartout took the motion as to mean enough eggs, now for the crepes. Jules sighed.  
  
"Slept well?" Phileas asked, laying a napkin over his lap.  
  
Again Jules nodded.  
  
Rebecca sipped at the tea that had been waiting for her. "Really?" Her sharp eyes gleamed over the rim of her cup, watching Jules as a hawk might watch a mouse. "I did not realize that was possible sitting up right in a chair."  
  
Phileas frowned.  
  
But Jules tried to joke away their concerns with "Well, it was more leaned over on the desk."  
  
Phileas was not amused. His eyes narrowed. "I must remember that that is what you prefer with your next visit. The servants won't have to bother with making ready your room."   
  
Again his cousin glared at him.  
  
Phileas ignored her. Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the real topic of the morning. "So, Verne, are you going to let us in on what is bothering you? Or are you going to continue to make us guess?"  
  
"And worry." Passpartout added, laying toast on the pile of food on Jules plate, before, finally, moving on to serve his master.  
  
Jules glanced up at his fellow frenchman. "You don't need to worry about me, Passpartout." Once more the I-don't-believe-you look. Jules turned to his host. "Really, Fogg, there is nothing wrong." he assured, though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't meet those see-everything eyes of Phileas Fogg.  
  
For the first time, Phileas didn't allow it to be left at that. "Jules Verne, for a man with such an unlimited imagination, you are a terrible lier." he observed, then calmly took a bite of his eggs. "By the way: eat!" It was an order, not a suggestion. Phileas Fogg was done with being patient.  
  
Jules sent a pleading look in Rebecca's direction. But she simply smiled, saying "It is really quite delicious. Passpartout has out done himself this morning."  
  
Passpartout beamed.  
  
The young writer frowned, falling back against the back of his chair. Whether it was lack of sleep or the whispering or something else, the sight of food was, in the least, unappetizing. At the most, sick to his stomach. He did not want to eat!  
  
After a silent moment, Phileas leaned forward. "I truly dislike having to repeat myself." he warned, his tone low and dangerous.  
  
Jules glanced at him again, wondering if he realized he was threatening him in order to protect him. With a sigh, he picked up a dry piece of toast and proceeded to nibble at it.  
  
Satisfied, at least for now, Phileas turned his attention to his cousin. "What I would like to know is why it is such a secret." he wondered. "Have we done something to fail his trust in us?"  
  
Jules eyes widened. He really didn't mean to cause his friends any stress. It hurt him dearly that he caused them even the slightest bother what-so-ever. But he just couldn't to tell them either. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't. He hid himself behind another nibble of toast.  
  
Phileas continued, watching the boy from the corner of his eye. "You must hear the racket he causes all night long... pacing the floor of his room until I fear he will dig himself right through to the den below."  
  
Rebecca smiled at the act her cousin was putting on. He was much better at shaking the truth out of someone than trying to guilt it out of them.   
  
Jules leaned forward. "I can go back to Paris." he suggested hurriedly. "I won't be a bother then."  
  
"Of course you would be." Phileas waved away the suggestion.   
  
"Who would watch to be sure Mister Jules had good food?" Passpartout offered as a way of an extension on his master's answer.   
  
"I will not deliver you to that tiny little garret you insist on calling home in worse condition than I picked you up in." Phileas announced, determined to put an end to that suggestion.  
  
But, even mild mannered Jules Verne had a limit to his patients.   
  
To everyone's surprise, including his own, he jumped to his feet. "Fine! I will take a ship back!"  
  
"Don't be ridicules, Verne." Phileas snapped, looking up at the boy. "Sit down and talk to us!"  
  
"There is nothing to talk about." The frustrated frenchman waved a hand in the air. "How many times do I have to say it? What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?" he cried.  
  
"Jules, dear..." Rebecca started, hoping to calm the situation before things got out of hand. "We are only trying to help..."  
  
"I don't need nor want your help!" Jules snapped.  
  
Startled, Rebecca did something she rarely, if ever, did. She clamped her mouth closed, a hurt expression momentarily crossing her face.  
  
That was enough for Phileas Fogg. Slapping his napkin down on the table, he rose to his feet in rage. "I said SIT DOWN!" he roared.  
  
Any sensible man would of done anything to avoid Fogg's wraith Even Passpartout, who trusted his master impeccably, stepped back.  
  
But Jules wasn't feeling very sensible. In fact, the damn whispers in his head had him feeling damn close to out of his mind! And Phileas was not helping the matter! Growling, he announced "I will not!" He started for the nearest exit.  
  
Fogg was not to be walked away from.   
  
He stepped away from the table after his young, obstinate guest.  
  
"Phileas... " Rebecca hurried to her feet, suddenly fearful of what her cousin might do.  
  
Phileas grabbed the boy's arm and yanked him around to face him.  
  
"Ow!" Jules gasped.  
  
Phileas stopped. He looked at the spot where his hand held Jules' arm just below the shoulder. He knew his grip wasn't tight enough to cause pain. So, what had?   
  
He looked up at Jules' doe soft brown eyes. They were wide with fear... fear of him? fear of staying? fear of discovery? What the hell was going on here?  
  
He released the arm and stepped back. "What happened to your arm?" he wanted to know. Though his tone was no longer enraged, it was still demanding.  
  
Jules locked glares. "I fell." Truth.  
  
"How?"  
  
"I fell out of my chair." Truth.  
  
"Pray tell, Verne: how does someone fall out of a chair?" Phileas arms crossed over his chest, waiting for an answer.  
  
Jules eyes dropped. He wanted to tell hem. He really wanted to tell them... but he couldn't. He wouldn't. The whispers...   
  
He frowned. He was awake. Why was he hearing the whispers now? His eyes searched the floor before him as if it might offer some form of an answer. If only he could understand them... if only he could tell Fogg and the others... if only...  
  
"Verne?"  
  
As if suddenly realizing that there were other people in the room, Jules head snapped up to look at Fogg, his eyes filled with confusion. He tilted his head to one side and blinked up at the man.  
  
Phileas Fogg stared back. "What happened?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned. He reached out a gently took the boy's arm to steady him as he began to sway.   
  
"Fogg?" Jules mumbled. "I want to tell you..." he confessed.   
  
"So, tell me." Phileas encouraged.  
  
Jules shook his head, his eyes drifting away. The whispering was getting louder... just like in the dreams. "I want to... I can't." he breathed.  
  
Rebecca appeared out of nowhere. "Why, Jules?" she wondered  
  
The writer's eyes closed. The whispers were getting louder and louder, but still too far away to be understood. They were getting in the way of thinking. Again he shook his head, reaching up to tap his forehead. "The whispers... " he finally breathed. "I can't. The whispers.... I can't." Suddenly the scream came, vibrating through his head like the bells of Notre-Dame: "HELP ME!"   
  
Cupping his hands over his ears, Jules dropped to his knees, bowing over until his head rested on the floor. He stayed still for a what seemed a long time, his mind momentarily frozen with fear. Then, recognizing the room around him once again, he took a shaky breath, calming himself. Hesitantly, he looked up to try and re-farmilarize himself with his surroundings. It was then that he realized that his head was resting not on the floor but on Rebecca's knees.  
  
She knelt before him, gently rubbing one hand over his back, while the other rested on the back of his head.   
  
Phileas was down on one knee beside her, frowning in a most displeased way.   
  
Sitting up, he looked from one to the other, then looked away. He ran his fingers through his hair. Well, so much for keeping it a secret.  
  
Passpartout handing Rebecca a glass of water, who took it and held it out to Jules. When he took it and began to sip at the cool, refreshing liquid, Rebecca brushed his curls away from his eyes. "You're shaking. Are you alright, Jules?" she finally asked.  
  
With eye still averted, he nodded.   
  
"What happened?" Phileas asked the question that everyone was waiting for. "What whispers?"  
  
Jules Verne looked up at him. "I... they come in my dreams, with the visions." he breathed. He let his breath out as if sudden relieved with being able to tell. He set the glass down on his knees. "I don't know what they're saying. I can't hear them clearly. Except..." He paused.  
  
"Except what?" Rebecca encouraged him to continue.  
  
"The last... someone screams for help." Again he looked from one to another. "I... I don't understand. It's almost as if someone is using the visions to contact me... but... who?"  
  
Passpartout spoke up. "Others?" he asked.  
  
Jules, Phileas, and rebecca all looked up at him.   
  
Passpartout shrugged. "If there be one Mister Jules who sees what can be, why can't there be others?" 


	2. Ch 2

The Others: Whispers in the Dark  
by the Chronicler  
Chapter Two  
Passpartout gently closed the bedroom door, careful not to make any sound. He paused to listen at the door, making sure that everything inside was as he had left it. Assured, he turned and hurried down the stairs to the sitting room where Miss Rebecca and Master Fogg were waiting.  
  
Phileas Fogg was nursing a glass of brandy, sitting in his favorite chair at the window.  
  
Rebecca was pacing the room, flipping through the pages of Jules' notebook. She was paying close attention to one of the latest drawings. "Look at this, Phileas... right there... can you make it out?" She held the page out to her cousin.  
  
Phileas looked at it closely. "When did he start to draw people?" he wondered.   
  
Rebecca shook her head. "I wonder if he realized that he did." She ran a finger around the very light drawing, barely visible among the more prominent lines of the tall, futurist flying building. "It isn't really a defined drawing. More like part of the shadow of the original drawing."  
  
Passpartout leaned over her shoulder to see what they were talking about. "Like a cloud picture." he observed.  
  
"A what?" Phileas glared up at his valet.  
  
"A cloud picture, Master." Passpartout repeated. "Shapes fluffy clouds make."  
  
Rebecca nodded slightly. "Come now, Phileas. You spent as much time on your back in the grass staring up at the clouds as a child as any one of us did."  
  
"I certainly did not!" Phileas growled. He made a point of ignoring her grin. Instead he asked "Is he asleep?" referring to his house guest.  
  
Passpartout nodded. "Finally, Master. I gave him a little something that will let him sleep until he needs to eat."   
  
Phileas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Good. Then I want you to go and fetch Dr. Camin."  
  
"Camin?" Rebecca repeated the name, instantly recognizing it.   
  
Passpartout frowned. "Master?" he asked, confused.  
  
"Dr Camin is a psychologist, Phileas." Rebecca informed him as if he did not already know that.  
  
"No, he is the BEST psychologist of our time." the lord of the manor corrected. Feeling her glare, knowing a protest was coming, he held up a hand, intending to get the first and the last words on the subject. "Rebecca, Verne is hearing voices. This is not the best indication of mental stability."  
  
"Like you or I are in any position to make a comparison?" Rebecca put her hands on her hips, a true sign of defiance. "The great Phileas Fogg wandering the great casinos of the world in a bloody balloon, gambling with property, life, and anything else handy! And me, seeking thrill a minute as the only lady secret agent!" She shook her head almost violently. "Jules is no more crazy than either of us!"  
  
Phileas nodded slightly, as if considering all she had said. "Indeed... you make an excellent point. But let's not overwhelm the good doctor on his first visit." He turned his attention back to his valet. "Perhaps you should make arrangements for Rebecca and myself while you are at his office."  
  
"Phileas, I am serious!" Rebecca snapped. "I will not allow any head shrink to come in and label Jules as crazy and lock him away just because he's different!"  
  
Passpartout's eyes went big at those words. He remembered his own time in a mental ward. It had not been pleasant. Every now and then, when he was feeling particularly lonely, the nightmares would come back. He shook his head. "No, Master, you can't allow them to take Mister Jules to THAT place!" he pleaded.  
  
Phileas huffed. "I have no intentions of anyone going anywhere." he assured them both, his tone gruff, hurt that they would think he could allow that to happen. "But I do believe that the consultation of an expert in the field of the mind may, just in the slightest, be of some interest. In case either of you missed it the first time: Verne is hearing voices!"  
  
"You didn't think there was anything wrong with his little trips to the future." Rebecca countered.  
  
"There is a difference, dear cousin, between that special gift of insight our young Verne has, and hearing voices." Phileas answered.   
  
"How do you know?" came the challenge. "If Jules had come up to you before you knew him and said this is the future..." she waved a drawing of some underwater vessel, ".. would you have had any different reaction than you have about him hearing voices?"  
  
Phileas frowned. He remembered what happened his first meeting with the writer. It had not gone well. And, yes, he had been quite dubious about the boy's abilities, not to mention intentions with such abilities. But Jules HAD proved himself, not only innocent of his accusations, but also very insightful. As time went by, an understanding of the visions grew. "It is true, Verne has a connection to the future. But, Rebecca, he is hearing voices." He held up his hand before she could continue the argument. "Let's just hear Dr Camin's opinion. Then we can discuss our next move from there."  
  
Rebecca continued to glare at him, but she offered no more protest.  
  
Thus, Phileas nodded to his valet, sending him on his errand.  
  
As Passpartout left the room, he offered "Perhaps all Mister Jules needs is good sleep. He be all better when he wakes. You'll see. Passpartout make him all better with sleep."  
  
"Sleep indeed." Phileas mumbled to himself. Thinking of such, he rose to his feet and went to check on the boy.  
  
**********  
  
Whispers....  
  
Whispering....  
  
Somewhere.......  
  
Someone..........  
  
What......   
  
Who.......  
  
Why.......  
  
"HELP ME!"  
  
Jules Verne bolted right out of bed, tripped over the carpet, stumbled back, and landed most undignified on the floor with yet another thud.  
  
Phileas Fogg pushed away from the window and peered over the bed at his fallen friend. "That was... most interesting." he observed with a frown.  
  
The customary fear, followed by confusion wore off quickly, whether due to Fogg making his presence known or Jules was just getting used to it, leaving the young writer sitting on the floor, running his fingers through his hair. "This is becoming a nuisance." he mumbled.  
  
Phileas stepped around the bed and crouched down beside him. "You are spending a great deal of your time on the floor." He took him under the arm, careful to avoid the bruise he now knew was there, pulled him to his feet, and guided him back to the bed.  
  
Jules knew better than to resist. He didn't really want to chance falling back to sleep and going through that all again... then again wakefulness wasn't exactly a safe guard either any more.   
  
With a sigh, he sat down on the bed and dropped his head in his hands.  
  
Phileas stood, protectively, over him for a long silent moment before someone behind him cleared his throat.  
  
Jules glanced up, but Phileas was standing between him and whoever else was in the room. He frowned. It wasn't like Fogg to let strangers into such a personal place as a bedroom, even a guest's bedroom, particularly Jules Verne's bedroom where hundreds of drawings and stories and this and that were plastered on the walls, scattered on the desk, covering the floor.  
  
Phileas Fogg stood tall and stiff. He was generally tall and stiff, but he seemed even more so at that moment, as if he truly did not want to do what he was going to be doing in the next moment. His eyes locked on a spot just above the top of his young friend's head, and he said "Jules Verne, may I introduce you to Dr Camin." He stepped aside and indicated a fat, balding man who stood beside the door.  
  
The man smiled gently at the boy. "Allo, Monsuir Verne. Comment allez-vous?"   
  
Jules eyes narrowed suspiciously. A hesitant smile crossed his face and he offered "Bonne. Merci." He glanced up at Phileas who was still watching that spot of nothing just above his head. He looked back at the doctor. "But we're in England. I prefer speaking english while among english speakers, if you don't mind."  
  
Camin continued to smile. "Yes, of course. Whatever you feel most comfortable with."  
  
Again Jules glanced up at his friend and again he was ignored. Taking a deep breath, he said "You are a psychologist." It was neither a question nor a guess. It was a simple, straight out declaration.  
  
Phileas glanced back sharply at the doctor, wanting to see his response. Despite knowing better, he hoped that, maybe, with in those few exchanges, Camin could have already made his diagnoses and Jules wouldn't have to suffer this undignified verbal examination any longer. But he did know better.  
  
Dr Camin continued to smile, a well rehearsed expression that had never failed him in putting at ease and gaining the trust of his patients. "Yes, I am a psychologist." he answered, nodding slightly, acknowledging the boy's observational skills. He moved toward him, taking slow careful steps, being sure not to start the child in any possible way. "Does that bother you?"  
  
Jules sighed. He didn't bother looking up at Phileas for an explanation this time. He didn't need one. "I suppose I expected it." he admitted.  
  
Camin stopped beside the bed. He noted the Lord of the Manor standing rather close to the boy, a protective stance... maybe even over protective. He wondered if he was protecting the child from the doctor or from the voices The valet had joked on their ride to the manor about the psychologist seeing to his master and his cousin, the Miss Rebecca fogg. Camin now wondered if the jittery frenchman had truly been joking.  
  
But, returning his attention back to the reason behind THIS visit, Dr Camin asked the boy "Do you know why I am here?"  
  
Jules shrugged. "I suppose there is some concern that I am losing my mind."  
  
"Do you think you are losing your mind?"  
  
Jules Verne looked at him for a long moment, before smiling. "Only every other day."  
  
"No." Phileas suddenly spoke up, drawing the eyes of the other two.   
  
The doctor frowned at the interruption, but Jules looked up at his friend eyes wide with curiosity and wonder.  
  
Phileas' strong and steady gaze met that of the unsure boy's. "Verne, you have an exceptional gift. As to the why of this gift, I do not know. I do know, though, that you have this gift. You are not losing your mind."  
  
"You're talking about the vision, Fogg." Jules pointed out. "Not the whispers."  
  
"Visions?" Camin inquired. Apparently he had not been told everything about this unique young man. And Fogg, apparently again, had been supporting, perhaps even encouraging, an unhealthy mental condition in the boy. This was not good... for either of them.  
  
Both Fogg and Verne ignored him.  
  
"As long as I have known you, Verne, nothing had come to that mind of yours without a reason." Phileas continued. "The visions have reason, purpose, that we have seen time and time again, proving that fact." he paused, but only for the slightest of moments. "There must be a reason for these voices. You must simply decipher that reason."  
  
Jules smiled slightly. "Simply?"  
  
"Simply." Phileas nodded once, a sharp and direct movement meant to say volumes without saying a single word. He rested a hand on his young friend's shoulder for a moment, then turned around to face the doctor. "Dr Camin, if you will walk with me, I will see you to the door."  
  
Camin continued to frown. He did not understand what had just happened, but, professionally, it put him on edge. Referring to all his education and his long years of experience, this was not a healthy situation, and he did not want to leave it like this. But that same education and experience warned him that such a protective guardian, such as Lord Phileas Fogg, had a profound effect on some one as young and impressionable as this young Jules Verne. Forcing a separation of the two could do more damage than good. He had to find out what was happening and convince Fogg into giving the boy up.  
  
"Doctor?" Fogg called to the man, holding the bedroom door open for them to exit.  
  
Camin quickly offered a smile to the youngster, saying "Bonne nuit, Monsuir Verne." Then turned and followed Fogg out into the hall. Once the door was securely latched behind them, he faced Fogg. "Sir, you did summon me here for my expertise..."  
  
"Which was a mistake." Fogg quickly interrupted.   
  
The doctor couldn't help but feel a little insulted. "And why is that?" he asked, managing to keep his tone under strict control.  
  
"Because, there is no ground work laid out for what goes on in Verne's head." Fogg explained without truly explaining anything. "How can you make a correct diagnoses when you have nothing to compare him to?" he shook his head. "My apologies for interrupting your day, Doctor. Passpartout will see you home." He started away, down the hall.  
  
Alright, now he was feeling more than a little insulted. "I do not believe that you are capable of making such a decision about that boy's welfare."   
  
Phileas Fogg stopped. The muscles in his back went visibly taunt. With very precise, very dangerous movement, he turned to, once again, face the doctor. "You believe so?" Despite his obvious anger, his tone remained calm, pleasant even.  
  
Camin had plunge in and didn't know how to get out. Swallowing hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. he mustered his courage to continue. "Yes, I believe so. Mister Fogg, it is obvious that Mister Verne means a great deal to you and your household. You want to believe that he is alright, that nothing can ever be wrong with him. Every father feels this way toward his children..."  
  
"Verne is not my child." Fogg pointed out, momentarily amused with the idea of him being anyone's father. Amused again with the idea of any father trying to keep in hand a young Jules Verne.  
  
"You have the same effect on the boy as a father, or, perhaps, and older brother would have." Camin responded. "And you are reacting as such." He held his chin high, ready to take whatever the man was going to dish out after hearing his next words. "That simply truths here are that Jules Verne is not only hearing voices, as you have informed me earlier, but also seeing things... Visions are for prophets, Mister Fogg. Jules Verne is dillusional... and you are encouraging this ill condition." He refused to see the man stiffen. He refused to believe that he was in any real danger here. "What should be done immediately is for you to step back into that room and tell Mister Verne that you believe it best for him to come with me back to the hospital where he can receive the proper ca..." His words ended in a yipe as he saw the tall, powerful man coming at him.  
  
Suddenly a flash of red hair bleared across his vision as a tall, beautiful woman stepped between them. "Phileas, behave yourself." Rebecca Fogg warned her cousin. "You wished to hear Dr Camin's opinion. Do not blame him for giving you what you asked for!"  
  
Phileas glared at her for a long, seething moment.  
  
For the longest time, Camin was terrified that this delegate looking woman would be no match for the hulking "gentleman" who stood ready to strangle the life out of him, not to mention any further opinion he might have.  
  
But, Phileas rage was no match for the strength of those emerald green eyes of his cousin. With a wave of his hand, he spun about and stomped away, yelling as he went "Passpartout! Where are you?" 


	3. Ch 3

Others: Whispers in the Dark  
by the Chronicler  
  
----------  
  
Chapter Three  
This wasn't going well.   
  
Fogg wasn't going to take him back to Paris. And he wasn't going to let him go on his own... particularly now that he had some idea of what was going on in Jules' head. Fogg had even gone as far as bring that psychologist to... to...   
  
Jules shook his head. Maybe he was losing his mind. Maybe he was going mad.   
  
Maybe he wasn't.  
  
Whichever, he was not going to find out here with Passpartout and Fogg watching him like a hawk, and who knows what Rebecca was up to.  
  
Jules Verne slipped into his leather jacket as he glanced around for his notebook. After finding his most valuable possession, he checked his pockets, finding a few coins (something Rebecca always managed to slip in on his visits when he wasn't looking; he usually found a way to return them, leaving them here or there in the house, but, today, he thought he might need them). Then, he stepped to the door.   
  
The hall was empty.  
  
"First time for everything." Jules mumbled to himself, slipping out. Of course, he thought as he tip toed down the stairs, Passpartout was probably seeing to the supper arrangements and Fogg was probably sponging up some brandy and Rebecca....  
  
"Tell me, my dear cousin, what changed your mind?"  
  
Jules froze just before crossing the entry way to the front door. It took him only a second to realize Rebecca was speaking from the sitting room to the left of the entry. Well, at least he now knew where she and Phileas were.  
  
"I did not change my mind, Rebecca." Phileas was saying. "I wanted to know the doctor's opinion. I now have his opinion." The voice paused, no doubt to take a sip of something mind-numbing. "I can not make a proper decision without viewing all the points of facts."  
  
"What makes you think we need to make a decision for him?" Rebecca wanted to know. "Our little boy is nearly all grown up." she teased.  
  
Jules frowned. Our? Nearly? Why did Rebecca always have to tease? Well, at least she sounded finally on his side.  
  
"Do you honestly believe that Verne is in any condition to make such a decision?" Phileas returned. "Really, Rebecca, have you seen him? The boy won't eat, won't sleep without Passpartout drugging him! These, in my own poor judgment, do not make good decisions."  
  
Drugged? Oh, that explains the nap.  
  
There was a quiet moment, a pause...  
  
Rebecca sounded tired, resigned. "We can't make choices for him, Phileas. We can't protect him from everything." Another pause. "But if we can get him to eat and sleep, maybe it will clear his   
head some. He'll make better decisions then."  
  
So much for being on his side.  
  
Jules had heard enough. looking around the corner to be sure the cousins were facing the other direction, he darted across the entry way and out the front door.  
  
**********  
  
Phileas glanced back, hearing something at the front door. But he saw nothing, no one. "Passpartout?" he called his valet.  
  
Within a breath, his loyal servant was standing in the doorway, a ruffled apron hanging down his front. "Yes, Mater?"  
  
Phileas frowned. But decided the noise was just jitters. But since his valet was already there... "I do not believe it will be easy to get Verne to eat anything overly..." What was the description he was looking for? Heavy? Rich? Abundant? Food-like?  
  
Turned out he didn't need any more details. Passpartout, as usual, had already foreseen such difficulty and had prepared. "Ah, yes, Master. I made soup for Mister Jules. Whatever the ill, chicken soup cures it all." he assured. "I be taking it up to him after I've served you and Miss Rebecca."  
  
Phileas nodded his approval. "Stay with him until he finishes it. And, Passpartout... be sure he sleeps after he's eaten."  
  
Passpartout frowned, but nodded, understanding what his master was asking. He felt terribly guilty about having to drug his countryman, but he understood the need. "Supper will be ready soon, Master." he let them know before turning and starting back for the kitchen.   
  
he paused at the front door, noticing, as he passed that it wasn't quite close. Well, with all there was running around in there heads that day, it was of little wonder that the door had been forgotten. With a sad sigh, he pushed the door closed then continued on to the kitchen.  
  
**********  
  
Jules pulled his jacket tight around him as he wandered down the street. He smiled slightly in greeting to a grizzled old man who walked from one street light to the next lighting them.  
  
The old man was too used to not being noticed that he completely missed the boy's greeting. He walked passed without so much as a glance.  
  
Jules sighed and walked on.   
  
He really wasn't sure where he was going. Well, eventually he wanted to get back to his little garret back in Paris. But he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to catch a train until morning. Until then...  
  
Whispers.....  
  
Whispering.....  
  
Jules shook his head, hoping to shake the voices away.  
  
Somewhere.....  
  
Something.....  
  
It didn't work.  
  
"What do you want?" Jules hissed.  
  
Someone....  
  
"HELP ME!"  
  
Jules gasped, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes tight against the scream in his head. Damn, no matter how many times he heard it, no matter how many time the whole episode played out, that scream shocked him.  
  
"THIS WAY!"  
  
The young writer's head snapped up. That was new.  
  
He glanced around, looking to see if there had been any other source of the call. But the only other person on the street was the old man, and he continued to ignore the boy as he made his way in the other direction, lighting lamps as he went.  
  
"THIS WAY!"   
  
Jules winced. He reached up to rub his ear, knowing that it would do no good. The ear piercing scream was coming from within, not from without.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked through clenched teeth, hoping to communicate with whatever or whoever had invaded his mind.  
  
"THIS WAY!"  
  
"Where?"  
  
"THIS WAY!"  
  
He was given no directions, but he knew that `this way' meant north. So he crossed the street and headed down a cross street, heading north.  
  
He walked what seemed like forever, continuing north. His mind had gone silent for the exception of the whispering which seemed more like back ground noise than anything else now. Dark had long ago fallen, and the clear sky was spotted with millions of twinkling stars.   
  
Suddenly....  
  
"THIS WAY!"  
  
Jules turned left and walked on.  
  
He could hear horses, smell rotten hay and dung. Empty and, momentarily, unused cabs were parked on the side of the rocky, unkempt road. These were the stables down near the marina.  
  
"THIS WAY!"  
  
Jules turned and stepped straight into an apparently abandoned stable.   
  
A young woman stood before him.   
  
Jules verne stopped where he stood and stared at her, knowing instinctively that this was the source of the whispers.  
  
She was a little older than he, a little smaller. Despite the simply, straight, gray gown she wore, she was an exceptional sight. Long auburn hair framed and oval face. She had beautiful, sun-gold kin, so smooth it looked as if it could shine. Crystal blue eyes looked at him with no expression what-so-ever. The only sign, in fact, that she had any emotion at all were the tears that ran down her cheeks.  
  
Jules took a shaky breath. "Who are you?" he finally was able to ask.  
  
"I'm sorry." whispered a song like voice, though her lips never moved. Again, the voice was coming from within. "I had no choice."  
  
Jules frowned. "No choice about what?"  
  
"I'm so sorry."   
  
The voice from within suddenly exploded with blinding white light as if something had hit Jules Verne in the back of the head, knocking him out cold.  
  
**********  
  
Passpartout burst into the dining room. "Master! Oh, big trouble, Master! He's gone!"  
  
Phileas rose like a giant tree doing a hundred years worth of growth in one breath. "What?"   
  
"Mister Jules! He's nowhere to be found, master. Mister Jules is gone!"  
  
Rebecca set her fork down beside her plate. "Oh, dear." 


	4. Ch 4

The Others: Whispers in the Dark  
by the Chronicler  
----------  
  
Chapter Four  
-----  
  
"Now, let's not get frantic here." Rebecca cautioned as she watched her cousin load, check, then re-check his weapons. Damn, he was being just a tad over protective! "He could of just gone out for a walk. take advantage of the cool night air to clear his head." she suggested.  
  
"Without letting one of us know?" Phileas Fogg doubted it. Jules was a very considerate fellow. He agonized over the slightest of inconvenience to his host, particularly in the worry department. Hell, he could be dangling in the torturous clutches of Count Gregory himself, and he would greet his rescuers with a shy `My apologies, Fogg. I didn't intend to be such a bother.'   
  
Rebecca had another point of view though. "Phileas, you did just attack him with a psychologist."  
  
"I did not attack him!" Phileas snapped just a little too harsh for him to convince even himself of his words. Great! Now the boy had gone and made him feel guilty! Taking a deep, calming breath,   
Phileas slipped his matching pistols into their shoulder holsters. "Verne never intends to get into trouble." he said softly, sliding into his jacket. "He just happens to be very good at attracting it. And, now he's hearing voices, which, by his condition of late, have influence over him." He paused for effect. "Rebecca, this is not the best time for a walk."  
  
Thinking of no argument for that, Rebecca sighed. She picked her shawl up off the back of a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. "In the very least, let's play with the notion that there is no real reason to shot anyone right away."   
  
Phileas smiled slightly. "Perhaps, of course, for the exception of Verne." When Rebecca looked up at him sharply, he continued with "A minor wound to his leg might keep him in bed for at least a few hours."  
  
Rebecca smiled.  
  
"Master?" Passpartout entered the room cautiously. After the initial blow-up of the basic `How could you lose him?' from Fogg, which, of course, Passpartout knew he didn't mean, he had been extra careful not to anything else that might, in the least, upset the man.  
  
His guest, on the other hand, had no respect for the higher class.   
  
The grizzly old lamp lighter pushed passed the valet and faced off directly with Phileas Fogg. "Ah have lamps ta care fer. Ah don't have no time to wait on polish this and thats." he growled. He shoved something at Phileas.  
  
Fogg frowned, He looked down at the object, and his frown deepened.  
  
"Jules' notebook." Rebecca stepped forward to take it.  
  
"Where did you get this?" Phileas demanded.  
  
"So, the lad does belong to ya, eh?" The old gray eyes narrowed. "he sure ain't seem all polished like ya folks, though." He glanced at Passpartout who had come up to stand beside him. "The lad even smiled at ol' Willy 'ere. Ain't everyday a youngun walkin' dis block takes a moment fer an ol' man like me."  
  
"Tis a French thing." Passpartout explained.  
  
"The subject at hand..." Phileas snatched the notebook and held it up as a reminder, "is where is that ever so polite young man!"  
  
Ol' Willy eyed the englishman with distaste. "Aye, that would be the subject, eh." He shrugged. "Ah don't know where the laddy be now, suh. ah found that thingy down in front of ol' Mac's Cab an' Stables. Seen it wit' the lad earlier." He frowned, turning back to Passpartout. "Strange little fellow that lad be, eh?!"  
  
"How so, Mister William?" Rebecca asked.  
  
Ol' Willy glanced at the woman. His eyes widen slightly. "Wal, ah'll be damned fer sure fer not seeing that lass right off the handle!" Apparently he liked what he saw. But a nudge from Passpartout reminded him of her question. "Eh? oh, yea, strange lad ah was saying. Right nice an' all, don't ya get me wrong, miss. But he was talkin' to the air like it 'ad a life all upon itself." He looked once more to Passpartout with a smirk. "That be a French thing too?"  
  
"More than not." Phileas answered for his valet. "Can you show us where you found this?"  
  
Ol' Willy frowned. "Ah do have lamps to light, suh."  
  
Rebecca smiled that perfect men-will-do-anything-for smile. "It is quite important that we find him."  
  
Ol' Willy only glanced at her, then returned his attention to Phileas. He scratched his unshaven, dirty chin. "That lad's in trouble, ain't he?"   
  
Phileas matched the man's gaze. "He could be."  
  
With a sigh, the old man shrugged. "Young folk, eh?" After a moment thought, he answered with "Wal, let's go dig him out of his mess." He turned and lead the way. "Ya know, suh," he called over his shoulder, "ah have meself a wee lad 'bout that age. he could be in church, swearing all his goodness to the big man himself, an' he'd still come out the doors in a heap of trouble. We elders gotta help each other out if our youngsters are ever gonna live long enough to suffer as we do."  
  
Phileas was frowning as he followed the man out onto the street. "He is not my `youngster.'" he growled, ignoring Rebecca's giggle as she followed behind.  
  
**********  
  
Jules Verne shivered.  
  
The air had suddenly become very cold... as if he was suddenly higher.   
  
He struggled with that thought. Higher? He was on the floor of some stable somewhere where he didn't want facing someone he no longer wanted to meet.  
  
Wasn't he?  
  
Whispers....  
  
There was a click and the blow of cold air stopped. Did someone shut the window.  
  
Whispering...  
  
He wasn't lying on a cold, dirt floor. This was soft, warm... now that the window was closed. A bed?  
  
Whispering.....  
  
Wait! Those were real whispers! Real, honest to goodness, distinct, not-all-in-his-head voices!  
  
"Calm yourself, Tam." hissed a voice. "You're scaring Autumn."  
  
"She should be scared!" another voice hissed back. "Candle, he isn't like us. He's dangerous to the future."  
  
"Then don't drop him." was the whispered answer.  
  
*He's awake.*  
  
Jules head echoed with the words he didn't hear. Those were inside his head.  
  
"Knock him out, Autumn."  
  
*I'm sorry.*  
  
Once again, the voice from within turned into blinding white light....  
  
....and then blackness.  
  
**********  
  
Fogg dragged his fingers through the dirt that made up the floor of the stables.   
  
"There be no fight, Master." Passpartout observed as he wandered around, inspecting the building on his own.  
  
"Jules would not just drop his notebook." Rebecca pointed out.  
  
Phileas rose up and glanced around. "Then whatever happened happened without a fight. he was either surprised or distracted."  
  
"One in the same, isn't they?" Ol' Willy asked. He was beginning to get a feel for the seriousness of the situation. By the way his three new companions have been acting, this was much more than lads and their mischief. This boy was in real trouble!   
  
"On occasion." Phileas mumbled. "He isn't here." he announced with a shake of his head.  
  
"If what you are looking for isn't where you're looking, you should look elsewhere." Passpartout offered. A glare from his master clamped his mouth shut.  
  
"Unnecessary, yet point." Rebecca mumbled. "William, do you know who runs this place?"  
  
"Ol' Mac, miss." The Lamp lighter scratched at his dirty side burns. "Funny he not being here. He ain't the type to leave the barn door open... so as ta speak, miss."  
  
"Well, then, perhaps we should find this..." Phileas struggled to properly ruin the Queen's english in the same manner the old man did, "Ol' Mac an be seeing what he knows, eh?"  
  
Rebecca smiled.  
  
The group headed outside again.   
  
But they had only gone a few yards when Ol' Willy paused, frowning. "Now, that not be right, that fer sure, suh." he muttered. He waved back at the three following him, indicating for them to look up. "Eh, now, what would be a blotting out the stars like that?"  
  
Phileas stepped up to his side and stared at the night sky. High in the sky and moving out and across the marina was a large nothing. Darker than the rest of the sky, it blocked the stars, the moon, and everything else that belonged in the sky.  
  
"It can't be." Rebecca gasped at his elbow.   
  
"Mister Jules be blowing up the Promethus." Passpartout agreed.  
  
Phileas eyes never left the air ship in the sky. "He wounded it, he did not destroy it." he mumbled. He took a step after the ship as it moved further away from them. "And that is beside the point." His hands balled up in to tight fists. "That is not the Promethus." He turned raging eyes on his cousin and valet. "That is the Aurora!" 


	5. Ch 5

The Others: Whispers in the Dark  
by the Chronicler  
  
----------  
  
Chapter 5  
  
----------  
Had it all been a dream? Another, horrific, not to mention irritating, dream?  
  
Jules Verne pushed himself up in the luxuries bed and, shaking the extra long sleeve down to free his hand, ran his fingers through his curls.  
  
His mind worked slowly, sleepily. The whispering, breakfast with Fogg (oh, what fun that was), more whispering, sleep, Dr Camin to assure Fogg that the frenchman really was crazy (but didn't Fogg refuse that explanation? said there was a reason for all the weird stuff that buzzed around the writer's head?), sneaking out, more whispers, the stables, whispers... and her.... and now he was waking up on the Aurora, safe and sound, and rested.  
  
It had to have been a dream. Nothing else made sense. He had been dreaming! And he could shuffle it all away as wild imagination on the loose.  
  
Then again, that did not explain why he was waking up in Fogg's room in Fogg's bed in... He looked down at himself. Fogg's night shirt?  
  
Jules suddenly leaped out of the bed, mortified that he might be found in the great Phileas Fogg's very own bedroom in his very own silk night shirt in his most private space: his bed.  
  
There was a giggle.  
  
Jules spun about, searching for the source. But he saw no one. "Someone there?" he called to the air.  
  
Again the giggle. *Come, join us for the breaking of the fast.* whispered in his mind.  
  
The young Frenchman dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. "It wasn't a dream." he mumbled to himself.  
  
*No, it was not... but I am flattered to be thought of worthy of a dream.*   
  
A more alarmed thought: "What are you doing on the Aurora? Where's the Foggs?" he demanded.  
  
*Come, before the meal chills.*  
  
Concern and frustration began to twist itself into a headache. Jules quickly spotted a set of clothing, all of the best quality and just his size, on a nearby chair and quickly dressed. before leaving the room, he glanced down at the nightstand.   
  
Fogg always had a gun hidden somewhere for just those cases that needed a gun at unusual (for any normal man) times.  
  
He opened the drawer, but all that was there was a bible.  
  
Jules frowned slightly. How very unlike Fogg to sleep beside a bible.   
  
He picked up the book. It was strangely light.  
  
He smiled. How very much like Fogg to have something rather unholy like hidden within.  
  
But the hollowed out spot inside was empty. Frustrated, he shut the book and returned it to the drawer.   
  
Apparently his head wasn't the only thing these people? could get into.  
  
With a sigh, he left the room, headed down the hall, and down the spiral stairs to the main cabin.  
  
if he wasn't paying attention, he just might have missed what was different. The room sat as it always had: the heavy oval table under the elegant chandelier; the artistic steering globe; the wide windows and double doors that opened up to the observation deck; the big comfy pair of chairs; the delicately curved couch; the bookcases; and, of course, and perhaps most importantly, the weapons locker and liquor cabinet.... all of which was as it should be. There was even an elegantly dressed gentleman sitting at the table, reading a newspaper, a beautiful woman stretched out on the couch thumbing through a book, and a tall, gangly fellow standing at the controls.  
  
Too bad none of them were the people who belonged there.   
  
"Ah, our guest has made an appearance." the man sitting at the table spoke up with a perfect english accent. He rose to his feet and stepped forward to greet Jules.   
  
Jules stepped away as he approached. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why have you kidnaped me?"  
  
The man smiled. "I am known as Candle." he answered, offering his hand. When Jules did not take it, he clasped his hands behind his back. "You have met Autumn."   
  
The woman glanced up from her reading to smile at the newcomer.  
  
Jules recognized her at once. "You were at the stables!"  
  
"Smart, this one, Candle." spoke up the man at the controls. His tone dripped with sarcasm. "better watch your step. He just might be able to figure out in which direction the sun rises."   
  
A definite American accent, not to mention attitude, Jules decided.  
  
Autumn giggled, hiding her face behind her book.  
  
The American looked at her sharply. "What?" he demanded. "He was thinking about me, wasn't he?!" He spun about to glare at the Frenchman. "What did he think about me?" he growled.  
  
Autumn stifled her humor, tucking herself behind her book.  
  
Candle sighed. "And this uncivilized fellow from the colonies is Tam." He smiled at Jules. "He is gruff and uncivilized, but not a better man there is to have at your side when times get rough. You'll get used to him." he assured.  
  
Tam smirked, taking insult with the compliment. "An' they're states, not colonies, you freakin' English peacock." Though his words were aggressive, his tone and expression held a notable fondness for the man.  
  
Jules stared at Tam a moment longer before turning to Candle. "You make it sound like I'm joining you."  
  
Candle's eyebrows rose. "You are a bright one." He indicated the others with a nod. "But, as you will come to learn, we are all the same: each of us is special, unique, in our own wonderful way."  
  
*And you belong with us.* sounded in his mind.  
  
Jules' eyes snapped back to the woman. "You're the one in my head, aren't you? How do you do that?"  
  
"Same as any of us do anything." Tan held out a hand. A tin cup flew from the table, across the room, and into his grasp. "With ease." Smiling at his cleverness, he took a sip of whatever was inside.  
  
Jules' expression was one of wonder and awe. "That is amazing!" Despite his apparent captivity, curiosity ruled the moment. He hurried across the room to get a better look at the man and his hand. "Does it have to do with air currents? I read where some oriental martial arts have figured out how to manipulate the air in a specific area, like controlling a wind." He shook his head, dismissing that idea. "No... no, that requires some movement. Magnets! Does it have to do with magnetism? Some how the metals in your body has been magnetized so you can pull metal objects to you... but then everything would be sticking to you... unless you can turn it off... control it. Can you repel objects as well?"  
  
Tam stared at the boy, startled by his enthusiastic interrogation. What was meant to have been intimidation was beginning to intimidate Tam. Desperate for a save from the young scientist, the American turned a pleading look to Candle.  
  
Candle laughed. He stepped across the room, took Jules by the shoulders, and lead him to the table. "Autumn says that you have not eaten in some time. Come, sit."   
  
His tone and manner was so much like Fogg's, the young writer instinctively obeyed.  
  
But it also reminded him of his predicament. "Why have you taken me? And the Aurora?" he demanded once again after he had taken a seat at the table.  
  
"Well, if you want to be completely honest..." Candle started, returning to his seat, leaning back, and lacing his fingers together before him, "you came to us."  
  
Jules glanced sharply at the woman.   
  
"Don't you look at her like that!" Tam snapped. "She did it for you! She did it for all of us!"  
  
Candle held up a hand, stilling him. "Understand, Jules Verne, everything we do, our very existence is dedicated to keeping our kind out of harms way."  
  
"Your kind?" Jules repeated. That was the second time he had said something of that sort.  
  
"No." Candle said slowly. "OUR kind. Mine, Autumn's, Tam's, and yours." He pointed to each in turn. "Unless, of course, you are going to sit there and deny the FACT that you have an extra ordinary mind with extra ordinary abilities."  
  
The writer stiffened. Fogg had always warned him to keep his talent a secret. Not that, after meeting things such as Count Gregory, he had needed much prompting. Thus, looking away (he knew he was a lousy lier), he said softly "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
Autumn approached unnoticed by the Frenchman. *He's afraid. He has known the evil that hunts our kind.*  
  
Jules stared straight ahead, avoiding their gazes.  
  
"Of course, Count Gregory." Candle took a deep breath, help it a moment, then let it out slowly. he leaned forward. "Look at me, Jules Verne."  
  
His mind gave no command to do so. His mind screamed protests. Every fiber of his being resisted. But Jules Verne still found himself turning his head to look at the man.  
  
"We were sent to you to keep you out of the hands of such evils as Count Gregory and the League of Darkness." His eyes were unwavering, steady as steel. "There is nothing you can hide from us. There is nothing you need to hide from us. We know everything about you. That is our job."  
  
Jules stared back. "And just what do you think my `extra ordinary' ability is?"   
  
"You can reach into the future, stupid!" Tam snapped.  
  
"Really?" Jules smiled, doing his best imitation of Phileas Fogg's best dare-you expression. "Here's a little future for you then: Phileas Fogg will not allow you to get away with this. He will hunt you down to the ends of the earth... and that would be just to get me back." He chuckled. "Wait until you see how he feels about the Aurora!"  
  
Candle leaned back and smiled.   
  
An expression that unsettled the young Frenchman.  
  
"Jules Verne, eat." Candle said softly.  
  
Once again, though every bit of him resisted, fought obeying, Jules Verne turned to the plate before him and began to eat. 


End file.
